


Something That's Not Soup

by storybycorey



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-25
Updated: 2019-03-25
Packaged: 2019-12-07 18:35:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18238703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/storybycorey/pseuds/storybycorey
Summary: She sits in the armchair against the wall, silently, gingerly.  Surely he can’t see her beyond a few shadows, but his eyes stay on hers, there in the dark, while she doesn’t eat soup and doesn’t follow the rules and doesn’t go back to her hotel room.(in response to a request for mutual masturbation)





	Something That's Not Soup

She grew up loving the water, could spend an entire morning exploring in goggles and a snorkel, fingers turned pruny and hair a saltwater mess that would make her mother groan. Could spend an afternoon beneath the sprinklers, examining with her magnifying glass (the one that was _hers_ and not Charlie’s) all the creepy-crawly things in the grass between her toes.

Young Dana Scully however, despite her love of things hydrogen and oxygen combined, did not like baths. At all.  A tub full of soap bubbles held little appeal to her ever-inquisitive eyes.  Too stationary, too static.  Where was the adventure in scrubbing the sand from her hair and the grass stains off her knees?  There’s no life or energy about bathwater, not like that of the ocean, the sprinklers, the sea, especially not bathwater turned tepid and dingy by an older sister and two very stinky brothers.  She’d rather have gone dirty, frankly.

…

Thirty-six years old, and Dana Scully has reconsidered her stance on baths.  Maybe it’s maturity or maybe it’s seven years of unexplained phenomena or maybe it’s day in day out of a (not stinky) partner who sometimes makes her want to pull her (not saltwatery) hair out. Or maybe it’s all those things combined.

These days she gets more than her fill of creepy-crawly things on a daily basis, barely keeps her head above water whether she’s wearing a snorkel or not.  These days a tub full of soap bubbles and gallons of adventureless water are the most luxurious, welcome thing of her day.

…

Types of baths, because she’s classified them, in order of most relaxing to least:

_Weekend Bath_ \- hot and leisurely, bubbles and creams and face masks _oh my_ , Mozart on her CD player and candles on the sink; if she’s really feeling it, a glass of wine from the bottle she bought at the fancy grocery store near her mother’s house.

_Post Airplane Bath_ \- out of her heels and water running within a minute of stepping foot in the door; she checks messages while simultaneously peeling away wilted rayon and polyester, kicking away hose; when she lowers herself in, the water feels so good she could cry.

_Everyday Bath_ \- functional, pleasant, the place where most of her personal grooming gets done, can last anywhere from just a few minutes to an hour, depending on how hot the water is and how soon before Mulder interrupts with a phone call.

_Argument with Mulder Bath_ \- don’t tell, but cookies (the ones she hides from herself on top of the fridge) on the stool beside the tub, and if she’s really pissed, half a cigarette before she tosses it into the toilet, a loofah, the good and scrubby kind; usually a vigorous scrubbing of her skin is enough to ease the tension, but sometimes... 

_The Other Kind of Mulder Bath_ \- see above, only these times, she admits to herself she can’t scrub him away and the bath goes in a… different direction.

_Hotel Bath_ \- a rarity, because the establishments they frequent tend to skimp on the luxury part of things, both in tub size and cleanliness, but if she’s desperate enough, she’ll fold herself to fit, she’ll close the door and crank the clock radio by the bed to the classical station really, really loud, she’ll fish out the travel bubble bath she carries (for precisely these kinds of occasions), and she’ll close her eyes as she sinks into the water, _just_ until she can breathe again, or until Mulder starts pounding on the adjoining door, which unfortunately usually comes first.

_Mid Nightmare Case in a Nightmare Town with Nightmare Local Law Enforcement Bath_ \- where she finds herself currently, or rather, where she hopes to find herself in a solid two minutes.

…

5:00 PM and the only thing she’s eaten today was a stale bran muffin at the police station, mid-interrogation, mid-about-to-lose-her-mind because surely she can’t be the only sane person within a twenty-five mile radius, can she? _Can_ she?

The water runs, and she sends a silent prayer to the hotel gods because for once, the tub wasn’t made for a toddler but rather for a grown adult, possibly even _two_ grown adults, but let’s not think about that right now, shall we?  Her blouse and skirt puddle to the floor, blazer and heels already abandoned breadcrumb-style on her way to the bathroom.  Cellphone muted, earrings and watch lain quickly upon the sink.  She doesn’t even bother shutting the door. She needs this bath, she _needs_ it.

This case… it’s awful.  Horrible. 

Women, pregnant after years of infertility… she shakes her head no, _no no no_ , presses the heels of her palms to her eyes to stop the images from coming.  It’s not the worst they’ve seen, not by far, but dodging Mulder’s _Are you sure, Scully? I can handle it on my own if_ …, seeing the pity in his eyes, listening to idiot men saying idiot things like _You can always try again_ …, it’s all  swirled itself into the perfect storm, centered right above her head, one that’s pounded her with rain for three days straight.

She was awful to Mulder today, short and snippy each time she spoke, dismissive of his every theory. The word ‘bitch’ was whispered behind her back several times, not by Mulder, but may as well have been.  She’s let this case get beneath her skin and she knows it.

Water still running, she finishes undressing and steps into the tub, hissing at but welcoming the heat.

“Wanna grab dinner?” he’d asked as non-confrontationally as possible, sitting in the car just moments ago. She hadn’t even answered, had only slammed the car door and headed straight for her room, jamming the key into the lock before he’d even stepped foot on the pavement.

She lowers herself down and down and down.  The tub is big and she is small and this blowout wasn’t going to last until morning anyway. She lowers herself until her ears fall below the water line, arches back her neck until the _whoosh_ of the running water is deafening beneath the surface.  It flows through her, it surrounds her.  She closes her eyes, tries not to see the things this case would have her see but instead sees herself at twelve years old, Missy at thirteen, both wearing rain ponchos and standing in the tunnels beneath Niagara Falls, holes carved into the rock to reveal millions of gallons of water rushing down just feet from where they stand.  She remembers that day, how in awe she’d been of the water’s power, its energy, how small and powerless she’d felt beneath it.  Missy had laughed, made a joke about how the water spray was ruining her makeup before continuing down the tunnel, but Scully, she’d just stood, still, alone, and for a fleeting moment positive she understood the meaning of life, at twelve years old beneath a waterfall with nobody there to share it with.

The bathwater is rising, so she breaks back through the surface, leaning forward to shut off the tap. Charlie had run past her that day, splashing her with water and putting a grinding halt to her blossoming epiphany. The bright light and sudden silence in the hotel bathroom feel just as jarring.

She picks up her shampoo, begins to lather her hair.

This job, this _quest_ of theirs—it’s all a bit like that waterfall at times.  Relentless, overpowering.  Sometimes she feels as though she’s tucked inside a whiskey barrel, tumbling, falling, just hoping to make it out alive.

_Mulder_ is a bit like that waterfall at times…

No though, she shakes her head, no he’s not.  

She rinses out the shampoo, watches as the soap swirls itself across the surface of the water. She forgot her bubble bath, she realizes.

Mulder can be overwhelming, unyielding even, can drive her so close to the edge, she’s sure she’ll fall, but Mulder always gives her a choice.  Always.

It’s still and quiet in the bathroom.  She wonders what he’s doing next door, whether he regrets letting a green little agent into his hotel room that rainy Oregon night so many years ago.

She _does_ choose this life; she chose it then and would choose it again in a heartbeat. She told him that once. She hopes he realizes it’s still true.  

Picking up the soap, she glides it over her arms, her neck.  Across her breasts, beneath, where the underwire of her bra makes her sweat. With cases like this, there’s always a layer of dirt, a metaphorical filth that clings to her body. All the fancy soaps and bubbles in the world won’t wash it away, but still she tries.  

Her behavior today was unforgiveable.  She owes him an apology. And while she’s at it, she probably owes him dinner.  Maybe something from that little café next door... Her stomach growls.

_Soon as I’m done with my bath_ , she thinks, _I’ll make it up to him_.

She closes her eyes and sinks back down into the water, does her best not to think of nightmare towns and nightmare cases, does her best to think only of nothing nothing nothing...

…

Her attempts at relaxation work, and she climbs out of the bath a bit more ready to face what lies ahead. _See_ , she tells her six year old self as water drips to the bathmat, _baths can be wonderful_.

As she reaches for her towel though, there’s a sound. Her posture straightens, shoulders tense, even before she registers its origin. Her weapon is nowhere to be—

The adjoining door between the rooms opens, and there stands Mulder, brown paper bag in hand, directly in view.  She makes a desperate attempt to cover herself, one hand across a breast, the other across her pubis while he scans the hotel room, zeroing quickly in on the open bathroom door.  

Their eyes meet as her mouth drops open.  “Christ, Scully!” he sputters, almost dropping his bag.  His gaze falls briefly to the wet skin of her neck, her breasts, the rest of her.  As if in slow motion, a drop of water trails along her clavicle, descends the curve of her uncovered breast on down to her nipple. His tongue appears for an instant between his open lips.  She can’t move.  

He continues, flustered, finally averting his eyes, “I uhh… tried calling… brought soup from next door… assumed you… I’m sorry, really really sorry, Scully…” Another quick glance down (her nipples have hardened), and he’s gone, door closed, before she even has a chance to respond.

She remains still, stunned. Her autonomic nervous system goes into overdrive, blood vessels expanding quickly beneath her skin.  Her cheeks flush hot despite the cool air, and other, more sensitive parts of her body react as well.

_It’s nothing_ , she tells herself finally, once the shock has subsided.  She shakes her head, mentally brushing the encounter away.  They’ve seen bits and pieces of each other before.  Nothing new, just another hazard of the job, bound to have happened sooner or later, yada yada yada.  

His face though.

His face had been… _appreciative_.  

Her breasts— they tingle as she thinks about his eyes on them.  It’s been so long since a man’s looked at her body.  With Ed, things had been quick, dark… She brushes her knuckles across her nipples, just a quick swipe, maybe two, and shudders.

She adds another type of bath to the running list in her head:

In A Hotel But Her Platonic Partner Walks In & Looks At Her As Though She’s Good Enough To Eat Bath- starts out tense because of a nightmare case, finishes even tenser because the look on said partner’s face makes her question every goddamn one of the unspoken rules they’ve never actually written.

Her body is charged now, on edge.  She reaches finally for the towel, but each pass of it across her skin only works to heighten the sensations. There’s a pulse between her legs, but she does her best to ignore it.  She’s gotten good at ignoring that pulse, too good.

Bathwater draining, she stands before the mirror, bare-faced, bare-bodied, still flushed, tries to see herself the way Mulder sees her.  He sees her, she knows he does. She’s _felt_ it.  His eyes on her ass, his attention to her lips, the weight of his hand at her hip—those things are real.  

_Those things are also dangerous_ , she tells herself.  

She stares at her reflection, meets her own eyes.  Back beneath that waterfall, she’d dared herself to step closer to the spray, to feel the water’s power directly against her hands, but had chickened out.

She turns away.

Slipping on her robe, she sits on the bed, takes deep breaths in an effort to calm herself.

She glances at the clock. It’s 5:45 now.

…

Her stomach growls again just as the hair dryer stops howling.

The bag reads _Elaine’s Country Kitchen_ , and it sits on the desk, abandoned.  She can smell the soup— tomato bisque, a guilty pleasure of hers. She smiles that he knows this about her, smiles that regardless of her treatment of him today, he went out of his way to buy her soup, because he knew, he _knew_ this case was getting to her.

There’s something very comforting about being understood, about being _known_.

Despite the debacle just moments ago, she wants to see him. She thinks she can pull herself together enough to say thank you for the soup, to apologize for her behavior today. Thank yous and apologies aren’t nearly as dangerous as some of the things between them lately.  They’ll pretend the bath fiasco never happened, she knows this. There are lots and lots of things in their relationship they pretend never happened. Pretending things never happened is their specialty.

Still in her robe, she raps twice at his door, turns the knob.

She takes his startled intake of breath as general surprise at first—she hadn’t awaited his acknowledgement before entering.  It’s dark; he’s drawn the curtains.  But then her eyes adjust to the darkness, and oh.   _Oh_.

His pants lie crumpled at the foot of the bed, the rest of him very not-crumpled up against the head. The least crumpled part of him glistens— slick, bare, dark pink and cradled in his palm. “Oh God,” she gasps.

A strangled “Scully” wrenches from his lips as their eyes meet, and his hand squeezes.  Every bodily sensation she’d worked at repressing a half an hour ago blossoms again tenfold.

“Mulder… God, I’m sorry,” she exclaims, cheeks burning, halfway back through the door—  

“Wait.” His voice is quiet, intimate, slightly commanding.

Her heart stops.  _She_ stops. The spray of the waterfall beckons.

Her hand rests on the doorknob, the satiny drape of her robe whispering at her thighs.  There’s the sound of skin on wet skin, one slick pump and his breath catching behind her.

“Stay,” he says, low. She sucks in a breath. 

She shouldn’t.  She knows this.  _He_ knows this.  She should go back to her room and eat her soup. But still she doesn’t move.

“I shouldn’t,” she whispers. 

Another audible pump from behind her.  Another. Another, and already she’s slick, swollen.  Already she’s rewriting those unspoken rules, using _it’s been a hard day_ and _but he needs me_ as excuses.

Slowly, heart pounding, she closes the door, turns to meet his eyes.

He brought her soup and she loves him for that. She doesn’t know what to do with this though, with something that’s not soup.

“Stay,” he mouths again, no sound. Her lips fall open as she tries to remember to breathe. 

She sits in the armchair against the wall, silently, gingerly.  Surely he can’t see her beyond a few shadows, but his eyes stay on hers, there in the dark, while she doesn’t eat soup and doesn’t follow the rules and doesn’t go back to her hotel room.

His skin glows from the bits of dusk that seep through the curtains, from the neon shine of the clock radio.  His cock— _Mulder’s cock_ , she says in her head—it’s wet with saliva, hard against his palm.  Her mouth waters.

They play a game of chicken, watching each other, breathing, breathing, until the room vibrates with anticipation, until the tension is thick enough she could choke on it.

His voice finally, hoarse, “Tell me what to do.”

No.  God no. “Mulder…,” she shakes her head, “I don’t…”

She’d thought she could be a silent participant in this, an observer. She’d thought she could do this thing and then tuck it away, keep it in that place where hallway almost-kisses and doorway confessions dwell. 

“Please,” he breathes.

The water pools beneath her feet, the spray hits her face.  Her inner thighs grow slick beneath her robe. She should leave, she should refuse, she should go eat her soup, she should—

“Touch yourself,” she whispers, and he groans.

Permission granted, he tightens his fist and he strokes, eyes never leaving her face.  He moves slowly, agonizingly so, and she thinks about that day in his hallway, the way his face lowered to meet hers, the way his lips just barely brushed her own before…  Her breath catches as his hand slips off, as his dick bounces back against his abdomen.

“More,” she breathes before thinking.

He gives her more— long, slow strokes so she can see, the fingers of his left hand gripping the bedsheets. It’s intoxicating, watching him move, listening to his labored breaths, this man who’ll give her more, who’ll give her anything, if only she’ll ask it of him.

His strokes grow in urgency. He grunts on a sensitive swipe, coaxing a hum from the back of her throat. She shifts, tries to rearrange her body to appease the growing pulse between her legs.  Her robe shifts too, catching on tight, sensitive nipples that beg for relief.  She shouldn’t be doing this, she shouldn’t be feeling this.  But then he breathes her name and _oh God_ she should she should she should.

He’s using both hands now, forearms thick, muscles straining with his efforts. “Seeing you,” he grunts, “earlier... Jesus, Scully, I couldn’t…”

“Mulder, my God,” she gasps. It catches her off-guard, him making it personal, him making it _real_.

“So beautiful…,” he continues, “Every day.  Every damn…” He trails off, that bottom lip she’s coveted for seven years caught between his teeth as he pumps.  She’s having trouble breathing.  The way he’s looking at her...

He’s not supposed to look at her like that.  He’s not supposed to say things that make her feel, that make her ache, that make her _wet_.  He wasn’t supposed to do any of this—walk in on her bath, ask her to stay, bring her soup on a day she’s treated him like crap. 

She remembers the days she was a rule-follower, when right and wrong made sense. When black was black and white was white and never the twain shall meet.  But gray… with him, she’s discovered the beauty in gray.

She’s not supposed to want her partner.  She’s not supposed to use trembling fingers to untie the sash of her robe. She’s not supposed to allow that robe to fall open, there in the shadows of his hotel room, in the midst of a nightmare case.

But she does.

A strangled moan catches in his throat, his fingers clench a bit more tightly than before.  With half-mast eyes, she takes him in.

She wasn’t supposed to fall in love with her partner.

But she did. 

Behind closed lids, she sees falling water, just inches from her outstretched hand.

He always gives her a choice.  No matter how close they come to the edge, and _God_ they’re close right now, he always gives her a choice.

She scooches forward in the chair, heartbeat pounding, and she makes her choice.  Looking him in the eye, she runs a nervous tongue along her lips. And then slowly, deliberately, she spreads her legs for him. 

“HolyfuckingChristScuh—” he breathes, barely able to form words.  His neck—it arches back, and his eyes—for a moment, they squeeze shut.  _He’s beautiful_ , she thinks, _my God, he’s so beautiful_.

“Scully,” he groans, “Jesus—”

“Keep going,” she murmurs, “Oh God Mulder, keep going.”

He pulls that bottom lip back between his teeth, and he keeps going—faster, harder, and with an intensity that leaves her breathless. He’s just as magnificent as she’s always envisioned him, those evenings in her bathtub, those nights she gave up fighting and finally gave in.

Her fingers play at the edge of her robe, flirt dangerously with the skin of her abdomen.  It’s the sexiest thing she’s ever done, sit bared on a hotel chair with her partner across the room.

“Wanted you… such a long time…,” he moans between pumps. “D’you know that?  D’you know that, Scully?”

Her hips rock forward to the sound of his voice, her fingertips slip soundlessly from her robe to her skin.

The way he moves, the way he watches her with short, harsh breaths, the way there’s sweat on his brow, her name on his lips, the sash of her robe lying forgotten on the floor... Yes, she thinks she knows. If he’s been as desperate these last seven years as she’s been, then _God yes,_ she knows.

Her fingers shake as they slide over her abdomen, they tremble as they traverse her ribs. She skims the sides of her breasts to the sounds of his soft grunts, and the vibrations settle directly between her thighs.  

She feels drunk—on his gaze, on the slow, sluggish heat of being watched. She’s known all along that once they cross this line, they won’t be able to stop.  

With hands beneath her breasts, she lifts their gentle weight, tugs the corner of her lip between her teeth and languidly squeezes them together. She’s not sure whom the tease is for—her or him—she only knows that _God_ , the awestruck way he’s looking at her could make her come, she’s sure of it. _You have that power over me, Mulder_ , she wants to tell him, _Do you realize that? You, my partner, are my waterfall._

Her breaths are shallow, her thighs slick and heavy, her breasts feel swollen in her hands. Unable to resist any longer, she pinches the tightened peaks of her nipples, whimpering softly in relief. Her head lolls on her neck as her hips pitch forward, as “Holy fuck” falls in awe from his lips.  

His rhythm slows, his gasping breaths hitch. The expression on his face is one she’s seen too many times to count. _So this is what it’s like_ , she thinks breathlessly, _to capture the attention of Fox Mulder, to be his unexplained phenomenon._

“Keep going,” she exhales, “I want to see...” _I want to see you come_ , she doesn’t say, _I want to watch you fall over the edge, to lose control.  And I want it to be because of me._

He keeps going and she keeps watching, kneading soft flesh, tugging gently at her nipples. She’s deliciously restless, all rolling hips and bitten lips, toes dug into the carpet.  His strokes devolve, from calculating and precise to erratic and messy, and she revels in it.

She can’t hold out any longer— her right hand slides down her body, brushes its way past her curls.

The sound her fingers make as they bury themselves between her legs is _obscene_ , and she gasps.  She’s never been this wet in her life.  

“I can hear you…,” he gasps frantically, his hands now a blur.  “Fuck… I can hear how wet—”

She remembers that Oregon night— the rain, the hotel room, her heartbeat fluttering beneath her robe. In some sense, she’d wanted him even then. The first few strokes against her clit wrench a moan seven years in the making from her throat, one she can’t even begin to hide.

And he… her man full of secrets, shares with her his best-kept secret of them all.  He comes, beautifully, pelvis rising from the bed, her name a tortured moan on his lips. She times the movements of her hand with his thrusts, shares in his pleasure despite the expanse of hotel carpet between them.

He lies gasping afterwards, limp and sticky but still the same man who walked into _Elaine’s Country Kitchen_ an hour and a half ago, to buy her tomato bisque soup. He turns to face her, satisfied, sated, but with a renewed sense of hunger in his eyes that stuns her. Years of sleeping on opposite sides of a hotel wall have done nothing to prepare her for _this_ , for _after_.

She meets his eyes, breathless, still strung tight as a bow. The walls of the room expand, contract.  

He holds a hand out, beckoning her, and her lids flutter shut.

An hour ago she’d have raised an eyebrow at him, a day ago she’d have balked, and now…  

“C’mere, Scully,” he growls.

Her body makes the decision for her, standing on trembling legs and walking slowly toward that hand, toward the arm connected to that hand, toward the man connected to the arm.  Toward Mulder, always toward Mulder.  

On some plane, she’s aware of satin sliding over skin, her robe slipping from her shoulders and on down her arms.  Each step closer leaves her less clothed but more, so much more, desperate.

His first touch is only to her forearm, but she sucks in a breath just the same. Through everything—the bath, the soup, the chair—they’ve shared not a single touch. In fact, she can’t even remember the last time he touched her.  Today? Yesterday? That time last week when he tapped her on the shoulder while she spoke on the phone?

Her knees are weak.  The pulse between her legs threatens to consume her.  She imagines climbing right up onto his chest and grinding herself into his skin, making up for all those hours of not touching.  When his palm slides down to her thigh, she can’t help it—she whimpers, hips jutting forward and searching for more.

“Fuck, Scully,” he whispers, lips parted, eyes on the wet pink part of her that glistens in the darkness.

He slides down the headboard until he’s eye-level with that glistening part. She feels herself grow wetter. Before she realizes what’s happening, his hands are on the backs of her thighs and he’s tugging, tugging. And she, delirious, has no option but to follow, follow.  Like a ragdoll, he maneuvers her, swings one of her thighs over his chest, hitches her up past his chin.  

“Mmmyes,” she whimpers, realizing his intentions.   _Yes, yes, oh God yes._

She can’t quite lift her other leg to the bed, but _Jesus Christ_ , she doesn’t care.  She leaves it flat on the hotel carpet, his stubble against her inner thigh so much more important than that.

He spreads her apart first with his fingers and she moans, desperate.  He’s so close she can feel the heat of his breath on her clit.

“Please,” she begs hoarsely, thighs beginning to quiver.

With the first swipe of his tongue, thick and flat up her center, her knee buckles.  She stumbles against him, catching herself with a hand to the mattress.

“Christ,” he whispers in awe, steadying her with his hands on her rear, “You’re so wet……so fucking…” and before she has time to answer, his words are swallowed, his tongue is lapping, his fingers are kneading, and she… she’s doing anything she can to tether herself down, gripping the headboard, fisting her hand in his hair.  

His tongue—she’s always known it was magic—the brilliance that spills from it daily—but magic doesn’t even begin to describe the things he’s doing to her now. Soft, slow strokes, then hard and fast. As soon as she thinks she’s learned his rhythm, he’s changed it, he’s bettered it, he’s figured a way to make her gasp even more.  

Hardening his tongue to a sharp pink point, he draws circles around her clit, until she’s writhing, until all she can think is _please God please more more more_.  

“Mulder,” she chokes, “MulderMulderMulder.” But then, just when she thinks she’ll die, he softens his tongue again, goes back to bathing her gently, goes back to suckling her lips, the skin of her inner thighs. She falls limp, panting, rocking softly against him for more.

She looks down to find him smiling, face wet and eyes closed, and she strokes her fingers through his hair. She wishes for a moment she could see the two of them, from over on that hotel chair. She wishes she could tell young Dana Scully, of the baggy plaid suits and the unpolished hair, that rules don’t matter, that in seven years her suit will be crumpled on the floor and her partner’s tongue will be buried so deeply inside in her, she won’t be able to breathe.

He groans her name, jumbled letters vibrating against wet skin.  Her head falls back on her neck with a sigh. With his fingers, he finds her clit, presses against it, circles round and round and round. She whimpers, pressing back, rotating her hips to help him find just the right touch.  He knows the right touch though—of course he does. He knows everything about her, whether she’s told him or not—where to touch, what to say, how to be her waterfall, again and again and again. He circles perfectly, licks precisely, and she, _God_ , her only job is to melt right into his mouth. And she does she does she does.

“Fuck,” she whispers, eyes closed, because no other word will do, “Fuck, Mulder.” She grinds herself desperately atop him, moans falling increasingly from her lips.  He grunts with his efforts, grows just as frenzied beneath her. His fingers rub furiously while his neck strains, while he reaches with his tongue to taste every last bit of her. He’s enjoying this as much as she is, she realizes, and that knowledge flutters itself inside her, right there where his tongue flutters, too. 

The pressure builds and it builds, until she’s gasping for breath, pulling at his hair.  She falls forward, bracing herself with her arms, her entire world narrowing down to that exquisite, meticulous mouth and the mind-blowing things it’s doing to her. His tongue finds her clit again, flicks hard and fast right next to his grinding fingers, and _oh, oh,_ _Jesus Christ_ , _this_.  Thissss.

“There,” she gasps, her mouth dropping open. “Oh God Mulder, don’t stop, ohgodohgodohgod...” She whimpers his name, grinds her entire being down against him.  She climbs into that whiskey barrel atop Niagara Falls and she tumbles—blissfully, fearlessly—over the edge.  

She comes, shuddering, her arms giving out beneath her. He holds her up with hands on her hips, tongue continuing until the spasms fade away, until she rolls herself exhausted beside him. He doesn’t stop though, covering her body with kisses, painting a trail from her pelvis on up to her chin.

He looks at her then, so tenderly. They’re both still short of breath, and for a moment she wonders whether it’s all been a mistake, whether this will be yet another thing they pretend never happened.  There’s razor burn between her thighs and evidence smeared across his face, but maybe if they try really hard, maybe if she goes back and eats her soup, acts as though the last hour never happened, maybe if—

His mouth crashes down, devouring her, hands in her hair and leg slung heavily and possessively across her hip. He kisses away all possibility of pretending this never happened, his tongue and lips and teeth leaving no argument.

When he pulls away, she cups his jaw, strokes his cheekbones with her thumbs. He caught her when she tumbled down that waterfall, with hands that tangle now in her hair, with arms that wrap around her shoulders.

“Mulder,” she murmurs, smiling up at him with tears in her eyes, “Thank you…for the soup.” She doesn’t mean just the soup. She trusts he knows this.

He chuckles, smiling back and pressing a tender kiss to each cheek.  “You’re welcome,” he answers softly.  “But Scully? That was so damn much better than soup.” And he descends back down, kissing her, loving her, blowing that tomato bisque soup right out of the water.

…

Later that night, at precisely midnight, she adds another category of bath to her list.

_In a Hotel Where Soup Turns Into Waterfalls Turns Into Two Very Satisfied Federal Agents Bath_ \- begins with an offer of soup and ends later that night, in a bathtub large enough for two, with water splashed onto the tile, surnames moaned into wet skin, and two partners jumping willingly into a whiskey barrel headed over a waterfall so big and so powerful, some just may consider it an X File.


End file.
